


A Gentlehobbit of the Road

by igraine1419



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds himself embroiled in a fantasy role play of Frodo's devising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentlehobbit of the Road

The rising wind that had worried the branches of the apple trees as Sam was gathering the last of the fruit, had strengthened into a gale as night drew in, whipping around the smial like a demon lashing its tail, rain flying at the windows with each flurry and pace. Sam was glad to see the back of it, when at last he clicked the lock in place and lit every lamp in the smial, trimming the wicks and kindling up the flames. 

Wrapped safe in a soft, snug blanket of limbs and wool, Sam rested his tired head on Frodo’s narrow shoulder, listening to the roaring gasp of the wind up the chimney and the shingle patter of rain against glass. Frodo was idly turning the pages of his book, one hand supporting its weight, whilst the other absently stroked Sam’s cheek and trailed down the side of his throat. 

Sam was quite content to lie across Frodo’s knee, listening to the light crackle of each turning page, as he felt heavy drops of desire pooling in his belly with each passing stroke of Frodo’s hand across his skin. Shifting a little closer, he pressed his mouth hard against his master’s warm neck and mouthed slow, lazy kisses there. Frodo’s hand squeezed more tightly as turned the pages of his book, his eyes roving over the cramped text, squinting in the lamplight. 

Sam sighed heavily.

“That was a restless sigh,” Frodo smiled, tapping his toes on the cushions and brushing light fingers across Sam’s ear as he skimmed the bottom of the page. 

“’Tis nothing,” Sam replied. “Just fidgety legs.”

“Shall I move – give you a little more room?” Frodo turned another page of his book, pausing to peer at an interesting etching of a black-coated figure sat astride a rearing horse, its blind white eyes rolling and froth spilling from the corners of its mouth. 

Sam rubbed his nose against Frodo’s throat one more time, before pulling back to look down at the striking illustration.

“He’s a rum fellow and no mistake!” Sam remarked, his forehead creasing into a frown.

“Hmmm.” Frodo stared harder, admiring the spark of the horse’s hooves on the road and the bright sheen of moonlight caught in the billow of the black cloak. “You wouldn’t want to meet him on a night such as this, Sam.”

“Is he a villain, Mr Frodo?”

“A gentlehobbit of the road, Sam, a thief and a vagabond. His name was James Longfoot, and he carried a reputation for the very worst kind of villainy.”

Sam looked more closely at the picture, his eyes drawn particularly to the intriguing and dangerous figure that glared out from the page, a wicked challenge in his eyes. “Is that … is that a hankie over his mouth?”

“It’s a mask,” Frodo grinned. “So he may keep his true identity a secret.”

“Makes his eyes look wicked,” Sam continued, gazing. “There’s spark in them like the glitter on the blade of a knife.”

Frodo nodded in agreement. “Yes, gimlet eyes indeed. A dangerous fellow, Sam.”

“Was he a hobbit or a man?”

“I think a little of both, although truth is tangled and there are many different tales of his birth and heritage. Some say he was born up in Bree, other’s that he came from over the mountains, far away near the White City. I believe there is one tale that reports him living close by Frogmorton for a time, in a hut deep in a wood, and tended upon by a fair hobbit maid who brought him cakes and kisses in exchange for shelter and silence, although that may be nonsense. The lasses like such tales, they have a taking for dark strangers on horseback. The Rangers caught him in the end, storming up the Greenway with his pockets full of rubies.”

“The Terror of the Greenway,” Sam read slowly, enunciating each word with menace, as he followed the spidery script at the bottom of the picture with his finger. 

“He came to a sad end somewhere over the South Downs, it is said, but it is no wonder, he lived a desperate kind of life. Some say he was more man than hobbit and had no true home, within the Four Farthings or without in the wider world, where he was rumoured to be short, and troubled by flat feet.” 

“That’s a grand costume, ain’t it, Mr Frodo? Look at those boots! He must’ve been a fearsome sight!”

“A daunting character, I should think, when mounted on such a beast as that!”

“He’s a monster!” Sam grinned, warming to his subject as he gripped the edge of the book. “Looks like he stands hands above that new black of Farmer Cottons.”

“He’s far larger than any of the ponies we keep, Sam. He’s a real stallion; a horse of men.”

“Imagine riding him bare-back with the wind in your hair, Mr Frodo, imagine those hooves pounding down the road!” 

Frodo laughed. “It seems you have fancies for such a life yourself, Sam!”

Sam blushed. “No! I could never be a gentlehobbit, that is more for the likes of you, sir.”

“Well, it would give folk something to talk about, I suppose,” Frodo considered, pulling Sam back against his chest. “First the burglar, then the cut-pocket…”

“You’d have to wear boots!” Sam stated, firmly, wriggling back against his master’s hardening bulge. 

“Indeed?” Frodo bent to whisper warm in Sam’s ear. “Do you like boots, Sam?”

Sam nearly choked. “I ain’t given the matter a lot of thought.”

“You’re thinking about it now though, aren’t you, my little dove?” Frodo smirked. 

“Mr Frodo!” 

“Do you know, there are many items in my possession, things you have no idea are there; little secrets, did you know that?”

Sam shook his head, listening to a blast of rain as it sliced down the window. 

“Articles of attire that never see the light?”

“Attire?” Sam risked a glance up. Mr Frodo looked as if he had the demons in him, his eyes glimmering. 

“Clothes. Oh, breeches, hats, cloaks … boots…”

“Boots?” Sam repeated, blinking slowly.

“Big black boots, Sam.”

Sam swallowed and bit his lip, considering. “Hobbit-size or man-size?”

Frodo grinned and bit down on the tip of Sam’s shapely ear, making him moan and push down onto Frodo’s burgeoning erection. “Wait and see…”

~ ~ ~ 

Sam lay on his back in the middle of the bed, staring hard into the darkness, wondering why on earth he had succumbed to this silly fancy of Mr Frodo’s.

A good half hour he had been lying here, and still there was no sign of Mr Frodo, not a whisper of breath, nor a flicker of flame, and it was cold in the draughty bedchamber, with a gale blowing down the chimney and a boggart rattling the shutters. 

Sam was just about to get up and make his way back into the light and warmth of the kitchen to make a pot of tea, when he heard a shuffling noise in the passage, and he stilled, holding his breath, his body alert to every soft footstep and rustle of cloth. 

There was a long, dark shadow on the wall, looming larger with every breath and Sam watched its slow progression with some trepidation, for it was deathly quiet and the dark shade looked rather menacing and tall. 

Thoughts of James Longfoot and his gimlet eyes troubled him as he lay, his breath strangled in his throat and his body both cold and hot in fitful waves of addled fear and lust. 

As the shadow grew impossibly high, so high the top of its slanted peak sliced the curling beams in the roof and the footsteps stopped at the threshold to the open bedchamber, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands into fists, gathering up the white linen.

There was a slice as of metal being drawn from a sheath, followed by silence once again as light flickered brightly, burning through the dark shadows behind Sam’s eyes. 

“Open your eyes.”

Sam felt the command in the voice and shivered, inching his eyelids open little by little until he dared to look full on the vision of dark menace that stood in the doorway.

From the slanted hat on the top of his head to the blunt curve of his booted toes, Frodo had lost himself somewhere and been absorbed by the waves of black cloth that flowed from his shoulders in heavy pleats, half-disguising the frilled white linen of his shirt and black neckerchief tied loosely around his neck. In his hand was a long, silver blade that gleamed white in the moonlight spilling in now through the window, ragged clouds racing, driving the storm away. 

Over his mouth and nose was a black handkerchief, and all that could be seen of his beautiful face were his flashing blue-black eyes. 

Raising the blade, with a tip of his hat and a seductive tilt of his fair pale chin, Frodo cried. “Stand and deliver!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sam scrambled to his feet his heart racing as he hurried to obey, lost for words and completely and utterly captivated. 

Looking down at his rough shirt and breeches, he wondered what on earth he was meant to deliver up, for he had nothing worth bargaining for. Rummaging in his pockets, he drew out some apple pips and a length of rope, but he couldn’t imagine they would be much use. 

Frodo paced closer to Sam, the heels of his boots clicking across the floorboards. He picked the pips out of Sam’s palm and cast them away; then he took the rope and turned it in his hands. 

“I have nowt to deliver, sir,” Sam stammered, beginning to wonder if this was a good idea and why he had started him off on it in the first place. 

“Hmmm,” Frodo murmured, stroking the silky rope that Sam used to twine the wayward limbs of the pear tree that grew up against the wall. “I don’t think that is true.”

Sam swallowed and backed away a pace, wondering when Frodo meant to safely sheath that blade, for it bore a nasty point. “’Tis truth, Sir...” Sam stammered, stalling up against the bottom of the bed.

“You must pay, young sir, or else…” Frodo’s voice was dark and rich like plum wine.

“Or else?” Sam urged, his heart pulsing strong and thick.

“You give yourself up.” 

“To the blade?” Sam whispered, his body trembling now with anticipation. 

“No,” Frodo smirked, playing the silver edge across the buttons of Sam’s green shirt. “To me.”

One by one the buttons of Sam’s shirt were laid victim to the silver blade as one by one, Sam’s breaths snapped sharp and high as the last was beheaded and his skin lay exposed to the artful weapon, hovering in the air mere inches above where his heart hammered and his nipples blushed peaked and red. 

“Sweet little dove,” Frodo drawled, slowly pulling the sword away and casting it to the floor with a clatter. 

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. “You look…”

“Shhh!” Frodo hissed, pressing a hard finger to his lips. “Do not speak unless you are requested to!”

Sam shut hastily shut his mouth, realising that this was a game and games had strict rules to be followed.

His booted legs on either side of Sam’s body, Frodo pressed Sam back down onto the mattress, regarding him with slow deliberation, watching how his breaths sobbed in his chest and his breeches were forced into an awkward knot of hardened flesh. There was a flush of pink over Sam’s chest now and he looked close to completion, a wet circle spreading over his right hip.

“Do you desire me?” Frodo husked, in a stranger’s voice; deeper and more forceful than his own, muffled slightly by the cloth, and damp with the perspiration of his own breath.

“Aye,” Sam choked, pushing his hips upwards, in blatant invitation. 

“I see that.” Frodo smiled, pulling something out of his pocket. “See this?”

Sam nodded.

“You know what it is I wish to do?”

Sam replied in the affirmative.

“Will you allow it to be done?”

“Why are you asking, I thought I was your captive?” Sam replied, trying not to grin as he saw the flash of annoyance flickering in Frodo’s eyes.

“Cheeky youth! You’ll feel the sharp side of my tongue!” Frodo snapped, climbing onto the bed and whipping the rope from his pocket with feline swiftness and grace, working so cleverly that before Sam could protest, he was rendered utterly helpless, his ankles tied to the bedposts and his hands behind his back.

“There! Now try your bed, little one, there is no escape!” Frodo laughed menacingly. 

Sam squirmed.

“Now, give yourself up, and I will gladly accept your deliverance.” Leaning over Sam’s splayed body, the green shirt now ripped and hanging open, Frodo trailed his eyes over Sam’s body and then raised his knee to press cool leather against hard little nubs, rubbing firmly. Sam jolted, his breath hissing out between his teeth. 

Frodo laughed again and pressed his fingers against Sam’s lips, where they were hungrily devoured. “Little wild thing!” 

Sam glowered and thrust up his hips.

“Impatient, too, I see.” 

Sam groaned as he felt the kiss of leather sliding down his belly and light fingers tugging open the buttons that were pressing cruelly into his flesh. When his aching cock was released, Sam groaned in satisfaction and threw his head back in an ecstasy of deflowered bliss.

Frodo hummed behind his mask, gazing wonderingly at what he had released. 

“So, what would you have me do?” Frodo said, taking Sam’s cock in his hand and mouthing at the swollen head through the silky cloth of the handkerchief. 

Sam was mewling soft cries now as the hot silk-sheathed mouth nipped and blew hot air over his sensitive flesh, a wet tongue brushing him through the silk. “Take me!” he thrust up blindly as Frodo sucked hard through wet cloth. 

Finding himself abruptly released, Sam cursed in frustration. 

“Such language!” Frodo retorted, running his fingers down Sam’s quivering thighs. “Perhaps I have other ideas…”

Sam wondered if this game might prove his undoing and pulled savagely at his bindings in a bid to take control, as he had always done, throwing Frodo onto his back and conquering him in one fell swoop.

“You are too precious to waste,” Frodo continued, untying his cloak and letting it fall to the ground before deftly tugging open the tie at his waist. “In quick surrender.”

Sam watched in soundless awe as Frodo stroked himself with slow, twisting pulls. Still masked, his eyes were deep as night-sunk pools with a moon drifting in each. The spark of danger had gone, replaced by a burning pale fire. 

“Show me how you want me,” he whispered, his words softened by silk. 

Sam clutched at thoughts, his blood pounding in his ears. “Yes, I want…want to feel you, want to see you come as I come…feel skin, silk, leather…”

Frodo tugged at the tight fabric of his breeches, pushing them down his thighs a little way as he settled his body over Sam’s and pushed down firmly, his hand guiding Sam’s thick cock up against his own, rubbing their slickness together, before reaching to twine his hands around Sam’s loosely bound wrists, stretched high over his head. 

“Uh!” Sam grunted and Frodo hissed, the mask stealing the sound as he raised his head and thrust down with his hips, feeling the rough slide of their flesh sparking beneath them as they ground themselves together. The cold leather of Frodo’s boots rubbed over Sam’s legs, making him shiver with the strange feel of the buckled leather brushing his soft thighs. He wanted to grip Frodo’s hips, pull him closer, but he was splayed and helpless and could do nothing but whimper and whine as Frodo tugged and pushed and twined their hot hands together. 

“Let me see you, let me see your face….” Sam panted, begging for release.

“Not…yet…” Frodo gasped, his cock slipping, losing the alignment. 

Sam swore and raised his legs, begging for more. “Please…” he urged. “Please, now…”

Frodo hesitated, and then seemed to stiffen in resolution, reaching under the mattress for the oil. 

“Now…” Sam grated, folding his thighs around Frodo’s narrow hips. “Do it!”

Forgetting to admonish Sam for his cheek, Frodo slid deeply into tight, urgent heat, thrusting hard, his teeth gripping wet cloth as he struggled not to let the pleasure take him too soon. But after only a handful of long, deep thrusts, Sam shouting for joy as he was taken fast and frantic, he climaxed with a shout of exalted delight, his boots slipping on the sheets as he trembled so hard he thought he would collapse.

Sam lay panting beneath Frodo’s spent weight, still hard and aching for release. “You have your payment, now will you set me free?” 

Arching his neck to look down onto Frodo’s dark head, Sam rolled him over with his thigh. “There’s some other business needs attending to.”

Frodo’s eyes flickered open as he felt hard, damp heat nudging at his cheek. “Oh…” he whispered and lazily took Sam in his hand. “Will you deliver now, Sam?” he teased, flicking with his thumb over the silken head and then tormenting him with short, light strokes that made him gasp and struggle, pulling at the ropes.

When at last he could take no more of this stubborn torture, Sam cried out as the orgasm ripped through him like fire, cresting on one deceptively playful flick, his arms straining at their bindings and his legs slipping, flailing over leather and steel, spattering against silk and black shadows, desperate for a kiss. 

They lay like this for a long time, bound together, blissful and heavy with sleep, so long that Sam began to feel the pinch of the rope on his tender wrists and the buckles of the boots pressing into his skin. 

“May I see you now, Mister Longfoot?” Sam sighed, moving under Frodo in a restless little dance. 

Frodo stirred sleepily, brushing the hair back from his face. The cloth over his mouth was quite damp now, and he tugged it away with relief. “Yes,” he smiled. “You may see me now as often as your pleasure dictates.”

“So you are my captive now, sweet little raven?” Sam grinned, tugging at Frodo’s curls.

Frodo crawled up on his elbows to lean in for a kiss, grinning broadly. “Whatever my Lord desires…”

Sam kissed him again, deep and slow. Somewhere in the middle of the kiss, Frodo made a small painful bleat and Sam drew back with a start. “What is it?”

“It’s these rotten things!” Frodo kicked his legs in agitation. “They are biting into my ankles!” 

“Shuck them off, Mr Frodo, they ain’t natural!” Sam grinned. “Unless you have designs on a life on the road?”

“Not likely,” Frodo grunted, heaving off the heavy leather boots and dropping them onto the floor with a loud thud-thud. “They squash my toes and besides I am rather too comfortable where I am.” Snuggling closer, Frodo settled himself on Sam’s chest, curling up contentedly, almost purring.

Sam cleared his throat. “Mr Frodo, I’m not, if you take my meaning…”

“Oh! Sam, I quite forgot!” Frodo briskly tugged Sam free of his bindings. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away there…”

“Not to worry,” Sam smiled, wrapping his arms around his lover. “Perhaps we might try it again…

“Again?” 

“Aye, why not?” Sam winked. “I have a fancy for those boots myself.”


End file.
